


I cannot tell what you say (but I know there’s a spirit in you)

by arrowinthesky (restfulsky5)



Series: Burn, Boy, Burn [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, American Civil War, Angst, Disfigurement, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Friendship, Hurt and comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedures, Mourning, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post Civil War, Romance, Scarification, Slavery, The Underground Railroad, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 02:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17889620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restfulsky5/pseuds/arrowinthesky
Summary: The war is over, but some wounds never heal. Some, like Captain James T. Kirk, travel the road of revenge. Others, like Doctor Leonard McCoy, endure their hurts alone and suffer quietly. Sometimes, the two will meet.





	I cannot tell what you say (but I know there’s a spirit in you)

**Author's Note:**

> I’d like to thank blancanieve, diamondblue4, and junker5 for their thoughts on this story and their expertise, edits and encouragement. I don’t think I can properly express what that has meant to me, especially for this story, which has worked its way into my heart in such a short time. Days, actually. THANK YOU for making this a wonderful time of writing. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this story. I’ve written additional notes at the bottom.

The title was, in part, inspired by the following poem:

DARTSIDE

I cannot tell what you say green leaves,  
I cannot tell what you say :  
But I know that there is a spirit in you,  
And a word in you this day.

I cannot tell what you say, rosy rocks,  
I cannot tell what you say :  
But I know that there is a spirit in you,  
And a word in you this day.

I cannot tell what you say, brown streams,  
I cannot tell what you say :  
But I know that in you too a spirit doth live,  
And a word doth speak this day.

"Oh green is the colour of faith and truth,  
And rose the colour of love and youth,  
And brown of the fruitful clay.  
Sweet Earth is faithful, and fruitful, and young,  
And her bridal day shall come ere long,  
And you shall know what the rocks and the streams  
And the whispering woodlands say."

Charles Kingsley, 1849.

 

...oOo...

 

Jojo hunkered down on the muddy creek bank, oblivious to the wild grass clinging to her damp skirt, at the same time it concealed her skinny form. The sharp-edged blades stung her through her wet clothing and pricked her bare skin as she watched her friends walk by at the top of the hill.

 

She twisted her bottom lip between her teeth, thinking. Thinkin’ hard. She shouldn’t have been swimming by herself—her daddy’ll skin her alive if he finds out—but she wanted to get away from other folk for awhile. Like Daddy did, sometimes.

 

Like Daddy did—a lot.

 

“See her anywhere, Peter?” Tabby asked the tall boy running past her. He was as fast as lightning.

 

“Naw,” Peter said, but he looked around, casually glancing Jojo’s way, one more time.

 

Jojo sucked in a breath and ducked her head, her heart pounding holes in her chest.

 

“She couldn’t have gone far,” Tabby complained. “But we can’t wait no more. We gotta get back to church.”

 

“You go on.”

 

“I’ll save ya a seat.” Tabby’s voice went as soft and gooey as the honey in the gold jar at home, the one Jojo liked to dip the spiral wooden stick. “Just for you.”

 

Jojo rolled her eyes, imagining Tabby swinging her skirts purposefully to catch Peter’s attention.

 

“Sure. You do that.”

 

He sounded distant, yet self-assured. Of her two best friends, Jojo liked him the best. Come to think of it, she might not like Tabby at all. She was temperamental and finicky—like the cat she was nicknamed after.

 

“Don’t look for too long,” Tabby called out as she hurried away. “I betcha anything she went back home, and then was hustled to her grannie’s. Her daddy gets awful lonesome, if you know what I mean. Sometimes does up his curtains, lights that one candle of his, even shaves. Lonesome.”

 

Jojo’s heart skipped a beat. She didn’t know what Tabby’s words meant. And she had no one to ask. Her mother had died two years ago, on account of the war, but her daddy hadn’t courted anyone else since. Maybe he was too heartsick.

 

She lifted her head, watching Peter as he frowned, Tabby growing smaller in the distance. “You shouldn’t talk like that,” he called out to her.

 

Tabby smiled and waved, before turning to run again.

 

“Jojo, you have better sense than this,” Peter muttered, his voice clear, despite the faint chattering of the creek.

 

He kicked up the dust along the trail, before looking up at the sky, where low, dark clouds had rolled in.

 

Peter sighed. “It’s gonna rain—and that creek is going to rise. You could get lost in the water. It’ll get deep.”

 

Ever since his ma died, he couldn’t say the word “drown.” Didn’t trust anyone to swim well, even Jojo, who was a fish in the water.

 

She didn’t blame him, but it was obvious he hadn’t started livin’ yet.

 

Like her Daddy couldn’t.

 

“You really aren’t that smart, are you? You’re all like your Daddy. Not smart. He fought for the wrong side—”

 

Jojo’s face heated and she scrambled up to her feet, fists clenched. “You take that back, Peter Marshall!”

 

She expected him to jump back, startled and frightened of her—she was known to hit hard and fast, to knock out teeth like a bouncer at one of those saloons—but he merely smiled at her. “There you are.”

 

Her wet clothing stuck to her body as she moved to confront him, jaw tight with anger. “How could you say that? He fought to keep his home.”

 

Peter’s jaw flexed. Their neighbors thought he and his folks were traitors. “And other people, too.”

 

She shook her head. “He let them go.”

 

“You don’t know that for sure.”

 

“I do!”

 

“You can’t know,” he said, sounding every bit of fourteen, four years older than her. “They left when he wasn’t there.”

 

“He told them to leave before the soldiers came.”

 

“He couldn't have if he wasn’t here.”

 

“He did!”

 

“I don’t want to fight, Jojo.”

 

Jojo lowered one hand, but pointed at him with the other. “Then why do you talk that way? Why do you say those awful things?”

 

He laughed. “I knew where you were. I wanted you to come out, silly.”

 

“Hmph.”

 

She started walking. Her grandmother would be looking for her at church, too.

 

“You’re not thinking of going into church looking like that, are you?” he asked.

 

“What else am I going to wear?”

 

“You’re wet.”

 

“I’ll dry.”

 

He snorted. “At the end of the sermon.”

 

She shrugged. It didn’t matter. The people here didn’t care anymore, their lives worn down like the threadbare dresses and trousers they wore. Hopes, too, like the fireflies snuffed out once the chilly autumn air arrives.

 

“We can stop at my house,” Peter offered. “My sister has something to spare.”

 

She thought of Hannah’s silk dresses, the ones they had managed to hide from the Yanks. She always envied Hannah, those dresses created in lovely shades of blues, purples, and greens, with the lace hems that her grandmother loved, too, and nodded primly. “Thank you. I’m grateful for your help.”

 

His eyes crinkled. “I guess you haven’t lost your manners, after all, Miss Joanna.”

 

 

oOo

 

 

“Look at you,” Ellie murmured, the soft light of the morning streaking her gray hair with silver waves like the gates of heaven. “The war’s been over for fourteen months, Leo, your wife gone for twenty four, and you’re sitting here, refusing to leave the house. Again.”

 

“It’s all a charade, Mama,” Leonard murmured.

 

“It’s called socializing, Leo. And it’s proper.”

 

“A charade,” he repeated, but he looked back at her and smiled gently, to ease her concern, if just a trifle. “I need to look after the horses.”

 

“Red again?”

 

Leonard's eyes drifted to the window, where he could see the stable, including the extension he’d built with his own two hands. He’d nearly broken a leg by dragging the trees from the woods in order to make the lumber he’d needed. The stallion had been injured during the war, after he had been sent loose, before he’d miraculously found his way home amidst clouds of smoke and dust.

 

After the stallion returned, two mares found their stalls again, too. Their ribs showed, but they’d returned.

 

God’s repaying you what he took, his mama would say. He didn’t exactly agree, but he couldn’t argue with her, either.

 

He nodded slowly. “I think he’s in pain.”

 

“I’ll give Elizabeth your good wishes, then.”

 

“You know I don’t care about that.”

 

“You care about her.”

 

At one time, he had. When he’d been naive. Young. A future ahead of him.

 

He sighed, taking her hands. “As a friend.”

 

“Her wedding is this afternoon, after the service,” she reminded him, not that he needed to be reminded. “As her friend, you should show your support.”

 

“The church will be full enough.” The reverend’s sermon often went far too long, in his opinion, too. But, he knew he wouldn’t be able to persuade her not to go. There wasn’t much to enjoy in Georgia for anyone, anymore.

 

“We could always make room for one more.”

 

Ellie’s expression was difficult to read, but Leonard could see a hint of reproof in her eyes that always carried into their conversations, especially when it came to Elizabeth, a friend from childhood. He’d been betrothed to her before Jocelyn. But they’d both married others more suitable for their respective lives. He’d been—and still was—a physician more dedicated to his patients than any lover. She’d had more money than he’d have in a lifetime. Time passed, and both of them had lost their spouses because of the dreadful war. But while her husband, Franklyn, had died in battle, Leonard’s wife had jumped off a bridge.

 

And now, even after their friendship had been rekindled, and hope was stirring within their community, and maybe their hearts, Elizabeth was moving on with her life. For good.

 

He should, too, but his past haunted him like the distressed cries of the men in the war did in his nightmares. Relentlessly. Oblivious to the hour or his fatigue. At his back, their screams filling the air, as they tried to reach him. Always the faces he’d been unable to save—and even the ones he had ministered to, successfully saving their lives—haunted him with their missing limbs, eyes, and faith washing up in his memories of the war.

 

Ellie reached for her gloves. “Supper’s in the oven.”

 

He felt a cold sweat coming on. He’d have to hurry her along. “Jo going with you?”

 

“If I can find her.” She sighed, shaking her head. “I bet she skedaddled off to the creek this morning.”

 

His gaze darkened. If only Jojo would listen to him. “I’ll have to have a word with her.”

 

“Let it go. For today.”

 

He grunted. “Get on with you. I’ll make sure to clean up before you get back.”

 

She kissed him on the cheek.

 

Finally alone, he ate in silence, barely chewing.

 

There was much to do, and only three hired hands now. Two former slaves and their families had returned. He’d give them jobs if he’d had the money. Without a larger harvest, he couldn’t. He just managed feed them—and he didn’t feel right about paying them with mere morsels.

 

So he just...fed them, without expecting anything in return. Just let them live here, in peace, with no expectations. The thing was—he didn’t think they owed him anything. Neither did his mother, or daughter. They were family. All of them.

 

His neighbors frowned upon his actions, but he didn’t want to manage the situation differently. He’d freed his slaves before the law demanded it. He hadn’t felt right, trying to continue on in the family tradition.

 

His heart and mind had been burdened with the guilty knowledge that every single man in those fields were human and deserved to live as he did.

 

But he’d gradually changed his ways, some time ago. His family’s ways. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he’d kept on in that sorry path. And his heart had been lighter for it.

 

So why had he fought for the South despite that decision? His hands had been tied, his own family threatened, not that they knew what Major Ennis had done to make sure Leonard McCoy was a doctor in the Confederate army.

 

He finished eating and washed the plate. He couldn’t afford to be idle, or waste time. He had fields to take care of.

 

 

oOo

 

Jim spied the church deep in the grove, its peeling paint visible in the surrounding dark woods like the stars shone through the night, just like the doctor had said it would even at noon on a summer’s day.

 

He looked past the stains of dirt—and maybe even blood—along the walls, the broken window at the side, the sad state of the steeple. The mournful way it sat there, as if begging for attention and freedom from its burden of holiness in a land that had sinned.

 

He was sure it was the church.

 

And people—blessed people he thought to himself—were there, singing a song so righteous, with heartfelt voices that ignored the painful days of the war, he nearly had to cover his ears to block out the glorious sound of it.

 

If these were the doctor’s people—the same bodies he’d healed before he’d touched Jim’s face—he wanted nothing to do with them.

 

Clenching his jaw, he strode down the path until he could see through the windows.

 

Something of importance was happening there. He hoped it was another funeral—maybe that damn doctor's—but surmised from the smiling faces that it was more of a celebration.

 

Tables of food had been set up and then mostly abandoned, for only a handful of women hustled between them. But they had obviously and carefully dressed in their best, if one could call those tired-looking dresses the best. More like many-times mended rags, despite the pressed skirts and sharply creased pants.

 

As he came to the steps to the church, he stopped. A boy, no more than six or seven years old, stared at him from the top step.

 

“Are y-you a Yankee?” the child stammered.

 

“Yep. One of the evil ones you’ve heard about, too.”

 

His eyes widened, and suddenly he began to wail, the ragged cries wracking his small body. “Mama!”

 

“Oh, Lordy,” a woman called out from the lawn. “You—YOU! Get away from him!”

 

Jim stiffened, but did not break eye contact with the child. A slow smile rose on his face, and he teased him by showing him his good side, then moving his head to show him the other. He was doing this kid a favor—making him look at what cursed his very existence. Maybe at least one person would understand what the soldiers and their dear doctor had done to him.

 

“Look hard, Kid,” he whispered. “At what your brothers and fathers did to me. Life ain’t easy like they want you to think it is.”

 

The boy shuddered, his eyes fever bright and frantic, like a rabbit confronted by a snake.

 

“Mama’s coming,” the woman assured the boy, racing over to the steps and snatching him up in her arms.

 

“How sweet,” Jim sneered.

 

“Animal,” she spat at his feet. “ _Filth_. Frightening children.”

 

Her distaste for Jim’s appearance was clear as she scurried away from his sight, shielding her child’s eyes with her hand.

 

With an effort, he finished walking up the stairs, ignoring the other women behind him on the lawn and their calls for him to stop. He couldn’t stop now. He’d walked hundreds and hundreds of miles on his own to get here. He’d pretended to be a dimwit—a mute—in that damn hospital, knowing that, someday, he’d come for revenge if it was the last thing he did.

 

The war had stolen everything from him. His mother. His brother. His father. His friends.

 

His fucking face.

 

Someone had to pay, and what better man than the dear doctor who’d administered the treatment. A surgery that had rendered him a cripple in more ways than one. He’d make that damn doctor look at his face until all he would be able to see was Jim’s monstrous face in his nightmares.

 

He choked back a sob, his legs going numb as he realized that, finally, he was close to his goal. He pulled out his gun with an arm that twisted oddly to the right. His aim was as poor as dirt, now, thanks to the sniper who’d shot him.

 

He had to shift his weight back on his heels to compensate for the awkward line that his arm formed. Taking a deep breath, he shoved his good shoulder into the flimsy door.

 

The door creaked open, not that anyone heard it over the singing. Cursing, he stumbled inside, bracing himself against the now closed door, bending slightly over to catch his breath. He was beginning to feel the length of his journey, now that it was nearing its end.

 

His gaze flickered over the pews, one by one, but no one had seen him enter, their eyes on the couple at the front.

 

He was crashing a wedding. A symbol of happiness everywhere, but especially in the South, a war-torn, depleted country.

 

He smiled to himself.

 

Even better.

 

He started to walk down the main aisle, limping now. It was as if his body had found a way to defy his trek only to lose its tough strength when the grand moment he’d imagined had finally come. He pressed on, ignoring the blisters and aches in full concentration of what was ahead.

 

He stopped, aware that his cripple’s dance finally attracted the attention he’d wanted.

 

He’d counted thirty-eight people in attendance so far, their expressions happy, their eyes warm and delighted. None were the ever-scowling doctor’s.

 

“Can I get some help around here?” he hollered, waving his gun in the air for emphasis.

 

The joyous singing ground to a halt, and the men sprang forward in unease or anger, the women and children flinching away from him like they should, old and young alike. They all should be scared of him like that. He’d come for someone, and he was determined to have him.

 

Or meet his grave.

 

He had nothing—absolutely nothing, after years of sweat, toil, abandonment, and death—to lose.

 

 

oOo

 

 

“Leonard McCoy!” the stranger with the wild, blue-eyes raged. “Where is that bastard doctor?”

 

The guests whispered to each other in astonishment—bewilderment, likely, that he’d use such a word in their House of God—huddling closer to each other for safety. The stranger was calling for a doctor. Her doctor. Her father.

 

Minister Barnett walked past Elizabeth and her groom, sending Kirk a stern look. “Sir, he isn’t here.”

 

The man pointed the gun at the minister, growling, “Why am I not surprised he missed a wedding? So he still lives around these parts? He came back?”

 

Jojo swallowed. She could tell him exactly where her father was in order to get the man to leave the others alone. Her dad would do something to fix this. She should, too. But her grandmother had shoved both Peter and Jojo behind her skirts and against the wall when the stranger barged in, laughing wickedly, like a man drunk on his own words.

 

Peter squeezed Jojo’s arm. “Don’t move. I know what you’re thinkin’.”

 

She could feel her fear growing like corn under a hot sun, but the man’s demand for Leonard McCoy pulled her forward. This man—he had a gun—but he looked like he needed her dad’s help. No one else would look at him, the grotesque mask he wore, but she could. “But—”

 

Peter wrapped his hand around her mouth. “Shhhh,” he hissed.

 

The stranger straightened to his full height, eyes flashing as he stared down at the minister. “Answer me!”

 

“I-I don’t think I should talk to a man with a gun,” Minister Barnett stammered.

 

Jojo struggled in Peter’s hold. “Let go,” she hissed, her words muffled from behind his hand. “I can take him to my father.”

 

“Did you see his gun?” he whispered. “He’s likely to shoot your daddy. Or you.”

 

She had seen it, but the stranger hadn’t pulled the trigger yet. Just pointed it up in the air. She didn’t think he’d come all this way just to scare peaceful people with a gun. What Northerner would do a crazy fool thing like that?

 

No, she didn’t think the stranger would shoot anyone. Her dad had a way about him, was all. Even his horse had returned. His patients always came back to see him. It was just how it had worked, ever since she could remember.

 

This dirty, skinny man wasn’t dangerous. This man was pitiful, like their animals. She vowed to save him, give him what he needed. It’s what her father would do if he were here.

 

She bit Peter’s hand. He yelped, releasing his grip on her.

 

She stepped out of Peter’s hold with a jerk of one shoulder, tossing her curls behind her. “Ya lookin’ for McCoy?”

 

The stranger froze.

 

“Lord, have mercy,” her grandmother whispered, holding her to her side.

 

“Who said that?” the stranger called out.

 

When no one answered, and Jojo’s heart began to race. Had she made a mistake? The man began to pace the room, scanning the faces of everyone brave enough to look at him and peering with his one good eye at the ones who did not.

 

Minister Barnett came forward, his jowls and hands shaking with age and now fear. “S-sir, I beg you to have the good sense to stop what you’re doing and leave us in peace. We have no guns in this place. The war’s over.”

 

The man sneered at him. “Is it?”

 

“I said it,” Jojo breathed out, desperate to put an end of the tension gripping the room and ruining the wedding of a dear friend. “Ya lookin’ for McCoy?”

 

The man with the crazed blue eyes stopped, pivoted on his heel, and looked straight at her. “You know him, Miss? Leonard McCoy, the devil’s own spawn that tortured me?”

 

She lifted her chin, challenging him to listen to her, ignoring his terrible words. He was confused, sorely. And he must be a gentleman, deep down, to call her Miss. “I’ll tell you want to know if you put that gun down.”

 

He hesitated, then lifted it up in the air again. “Nope. Not doing that.”

 

“Then we have no deal.”

 

He narrowed his eyes at her, the right halfway there already, the tight skin making it appear more sinister than he likely intended. Thick, red-ribboned scars began on his cheek and wrapped around his ear, burrowing their way into his neck, and snaking their way down to the hand that held the gun.

 

He’d been injured several times. Burned. Badly. His face ruined by gunfire, or by canon. She’d heard the stories about the wounds some of the soldiers had sustained, when no one thought she was listening. She’d seen the memory of those wounds living in her father’s eyes when he came back. The ghosts of war persisted even in his sleep.

 

Daddy never drank like he used to, seemingly cured of the whiskey problem he’d had. She almost wished he still had that problem rather than the grief that had latched on to him. It burdened him with so much pain he couldn’t live normally anymore. Like this person’s wounds had done to him.

 

She stared into the startling blue of the stranger’s eyes, and recognized the same darkness that lived in her daddy’s eyes.

 

She was shaken, yes, but more shocked that her father had helped him—the enemy.

 

“Fine,” he said flatly, and lowered his gun. “I just want to talk to him.”

 

She glanced around at the guests for Elizabeth’s wedding. Most were scared silly. Only a handful of men were here and they were either too old to chase after a younger man—or too in love with Miss Elizabeth to risk their life. “Not call off a weddin’?”

 

He waved his other hand at his deformed face. “How else was I going to get anyone to actually listen to me?”

 

She nodded, for it was true. And smart. Maybe that was why her daddy had saved him. Her dad was kind, the most compassionate man she’d ever met despite his gruff nature, but he never did favor fools.

 

“Can you take me to him?” The man shifted his weight, a grimace twisting his face more, as if the action pained him. “I should, uh, thank him for saving my life.”

 

A knot of indecision formed in her stomach, but something about the man seemed trustworthy. Something honest and raw in his voice—she’d seen the same thing in her father.

 

“Joanna, no,” Peter pleaded.

 

“I’ll take you to him.”

 

“You know him.”

 

She faced him resolutely. “He’s my father.”

 

oOo

 

 

They’d been gone all day. Although he missed their company for the comfort it brought him, and the normalcy, Leonard thanked the good Lord for the respite. Even though he loved his mother and daughter, their talking could be downright intolerable. He hated to hear about the people trying to move on without their husbands and sons and brothers. He hated to hear that he could’ve made a difference here, rather than fight a war he’d wanted no part of. He was a peaceable man. He wanted peace—for all humanity.

 

His demons plagued him more than ever these days, the soldiers he’d cared for on the warfront and in the prison on his mind at all times. Better for him to be alone when his guilt was a burden than have to see the pity in their eyes that he’d never gotten over the war.

 

He’d put in a day’s work and called it good enough. The sun was starting to set. They’d be home soon. Before dark. There were still dangerous men—and women—out there. No one was safe in the wreckage of the South after all these months. Things had changed. Drastically. Abandoned houses had become commonplace. Wrecked buildings were left standing without a hope of being rebuilt. Soil remained untouched without workers willing to bleed their sweat and toil into it.

 

At least, he thought gravely to himself, he had all his limbs and mental faculties. He could still work hard and make decisions for himself, which could hardly to be said about all the patients he’d left behind.

 

He walked slowly into his house, first taking off his dirty boots, then placing his dusty hat on the stairwell once he reached the first step. He needed a bath, but his pillow called out to him like a siren. He’d rest for a few moments, then go the creek. His mother, although she understood how hard he worked, wouldn’t budge on her rules of cleanliness.

 

He started up, clinging to the railing.

 

“Pa?”

 

The urgency in his daughter’s voice halted his progress. He turned around, fatigue bearing down on him like cannon balls around his neck. “Yes, Darling,” he said, drinking in how sweet and young she looked. “You look beau—”

 

His words died in his throat.

 

Standing beside his greatest joy in life was the one man who was never far in his thoughts, and remained an ever-present figure in his nightmares. This man was the reason he could not move on, no matter what he did to try to escape his living hell.

 

Captain Jim Kirk’s smile wasn’t friendly, or welcoming, or relieved. It was twisted into what Leonard had fashioned him into to save his life.

 

“Hello, McCoy,” Kirk drawled charmingly, while his gaze spit poison. “I decided to take you up on your invitation.”

 

McCoy felt the wall he had so carefully built around his heart shatter and fall.

 

His heart jumped to his throat. He _had_ invited him here—out of guilt, and maybe something else. “You...you can talk.”

 

And his voice—just like the unmarred side of his face—was beautiful.

 

The captain’s smile flattened, or as much as it could, the unnatural sneer unfixable. “Never said I couldn’t.”

 

Leonard’s gaze flickered over him as he remembered Captain Kirk the patient, still as death, on his pallet, silently enduring surgery after surgery, later lying there like a man dead in the brain. “You never said anything at all.’

 

Kirk’s smile appeared again, but it didn't warm the cerulean in his eyes, the blue that Leonard could never erase from his dreams. “That was the point.”

 

He could see it now—what he’d thought was a blank stare of ignorance was a hatred growing, and festering, in the Yankee’s soul, just waiting for the right time to strike. After all he’d done for him—but, he’d said, that was the point. After all he had done _to_ him, keeping him alive when a capable man like James T. Kirk wanted to live to his fullest. Beautiful and whole.

 

“But you never understood that.” The captain raised the gun, pointing it straight at his heart.

 

Leonard swallowed, imagining the burst of blood that would splatter onto the floor, onto Kirk’s face, and onto his innocent child. “Here? In front of my daughter?”

 

“No,” Jojo cried out. “Please, mister!”

 

Kirk’s gaze shifted to her. “You better leave, Miss Joanna, isn’t it? Your father told me about you at my bedside in prison.”

 

“Don’t say her name,” Leonard clenched through his teeth. “Jo—git.”

 

“I’m not leaving you, Daddy!”

 

“Jojo,” Leonard warned.

 

“I just want to talk to you.” Kirk stepped forward, jaw locking. “Alone.”

 

“Jojo, go outside,” Leonard said, cursing the tremor in his voice. The captain was a determined demon of a man, obviously, having walked here on his own two feet from the North. And still recovering from his injuries—this type of damage hurt a man, deeply.

 

And although Kirk had not parted from his care untouched, it was his mental health he was concerned about now, most of all. He was dangerous. Dangerous to them—and to himself. And he—Leonard—had been the direct cause of it.

 

“Oh, on second thought, I’d hate to put her out,” Kirk drawled. “She can stay and hear all about your heroism as a surgeon at Andersonville.”

 

Guilt washed over him in waves. “Go, Joanna,” he ordered.

 

Joanna’s gaze snapped back and forth between both men. “But—”

 

“Go,” Leonard snapped. “And don’t you or your grandmother come back until I light the lantern outside, ya hear? And tell no one, Joanna. No one.”

 

It caught her attention, as he knew it would. She nodded mutely, eyes suddenly scared, but compliant.

 

He’d used the sign, the lantern, when they’d helped other slaves escape. She knew—he meant everything he said. This was important, talking alone with the captain.

 

Once she disappeared from sight, he turned to Kirk and sighed. “I’ll talk, like you want, if you just put that fool thing down for a minute.”

 

Kirk’s shoulders dropped. “It’s not loaded, anyway,” he said, and tossed it on the floor.

 

Leonard blinked, several times, as it slid a few feet away from them. His lips curled up into a gentle smile. “I knew you weren’t a monster.”

 

His words were correct in every way but one. It was the wrong thing to say to the once impressive captain of the Union army. To the man whose eyes, at first, had pleaded with Leonard to let him die. To the once handsome man, who still had the fight left in him before Leonard had ruined him.

 

Kirk stepped up into his face, snarling with his shattered features, forcing him to look at his own demons, what he couldn’t fix, and what he had possibly made even worse. “Look again, Doctor. You created one.”

 

And as Leonard took in the gruesome fixture of war Kirk had become, at what he’d tried to fix, so desperately in such poor conditions, and without enough morphine or instruments or supplies, Leonard’s guilt and shame knew no bounds. It choked the living breath from him. “I’m sorry,” he rasped. “I’m truly sorry, Captain.”

 

Kirk’s eyes filled with unshed tears, and he caught the edge of Leonard’s collar with his frail, shaking fingers, looking up at him in desperation. “Help me,” he whispered.

 

 

oOo

 

 

Jim didn’t understand why, but he allowed Leonard to lead him to the sette in the other room.

 

It had clearly been broken and refurbished, its feet constructed with different woods, its cushions mismatched, but he sat down, body trembling. He was exhausted.

 

He didn’t want to shoot the man, now that he was here. Deep down, he was a coward. All his careful plans of revenge had deserted him when he needed the most. He could kill the enemy, as he’d sworn an oath to do, but when it came to this—seeking revenge for the things that had destroyed his own life—he hadn’t been able to carry out his formidable plans.

 

Shaking, he allowed his head to drop in his hands, shutting out the world around him. He wanted to disappear, not sit here and talk.

 

“Would you like some tea?”

 

He laughed bitterly, glancing up at his unexpected host. “You’re offering me...tea?”

 

Leonard’s jaw clenched. “I’m likely being a fool, but yes. I am.”

 

He paused, considering it, and decided one cup of tea couldn’t hurt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Maybe the tea would fill some of the emptiness inside him, give him a little strength back. But then, he’d leave. “Fine.”

 

Leonard left him alone in the room, and Jim was grateful. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He slid them under his thighs, willing his heart to slow down. He was here and hadn’t killed the bastard and didn’t want to kill him anymore but he’d scared his daughter and he felt awfully guilty about that. It didn’t make sense, after what McCoy had done to help him.

 

 _He_ didn’t make sense. Hadn’t for a long time.

 

Tears sprang afresh to his eyes. He failed to keep them in and they trailed down his cheeks, leaking over his scars like healing rain rivulets. He closed his eyes and let the hot wetness have its way. After a time, he found the willpower to get control of his emotions. He wiped the wetness away, and opened his eyes, jolting as he realized that Leonard had returned with a tray of tea—and food. And was standing there, watching him quietly.

 

The sun had gone down. After placing the tray on a table, Leonard lit a candle on either side of the settee, the only seat in the room.

 

“You need to eat,” the doctor murmured.

 

Jim stared at the plate, his mouth watering against his will. “I can’t be beholden to you.”

 

“I think it’s the other way around,” Leonard whispered, looking earnestly into Jim’s eyes.

 

Jim’s stomach clenched, and he looked away from the doctor’s soft gaze. He’d never forgotten the tender way Leonard had cared for him, spending night after night for weeks, then months, trying to soothe his cries, his anguish, with kind words and morphine, when he’d had it available.

 

Like an angel, he had tried to heal him.

 

Like a god, he’d tried to fix him—and failed.

 

“They go back to the church?” he gritted out.

 

Leonard’s eyes flickered. “Maybe—but most likely to Aurora’s.”

 

Jim didn’t ask who Aurora was. He didn't care or need to know.

 

“Eat,” Leonard urged softly, pushing the tray of food towards him.

 

He couldn’t help himself, and reached for the potatoes, the greens, the meat, which was deer, he thought, as he bit into it.

 

He closed his eyes and sat back as he chewed, his body melting into the lumpy cushions. He took his time, his muscles weaker than he’d thought. He used his hands, ignoring the fork when he couldn’t hold his arm correctly or bring it up to his mouth without spilling.

 

Useless, he thought. He was useless.

 

Leonard fixed his tea with sugar and handed it to him. “My mama’s recipe.”

 

Jim frowned, looking down into the cup. “Recipe? For tea?”

 

“Lemon is a cure all, you know.”

 

Jim blinked. “L-lemons? You have lemons?”

 

No one had had anything so divine in years.

 

Leonard shrugged. “A few.”

 

Jim’s eyes widened and he tried not to scarf down the liquid too hastily, because it was damn hot. But he couldn’t help it. The tangy mixed with the sweet—it was delicious, a magic elixir. Forgetting, he smiled, before greedily drinking every last drop.

 

Leonard handed him the second cup. “There’s more.”

 

He didn’t take it. “That’s yours.”

 

The doctor’s eyes filled with gentle mirth. “So, you’re the sharing type? Even with me?”

 

He looked away, shame heating his cheeks. Christopher had taught him better than this. So had his mother. His family had been educated and mannerly. Vengeance had been no part of his upbringing.

 

Why had he come? Why couldn’t he get Dr. McCoy out of his head? When had he become so bitter and cruel, despite yearning for someone like Leonard to hold him?

 

But no one would hold him now. Not with the way he looked.

 

He began to weep, fear and anger and hurt seeping from his bones. Wrapping his arms around his chest, he rocked back and forth like a madman. He didn’t think he would ever stop, the pain washing over him in waves. Guilt, too, that he’d hurt an innocent little girl’s heart, creating an undeniable fear in Leonard for his daughter's life.

 

“I—I’m so-sorry,” he cried, allowing himself to fall into the dark pit he’d made for himself.

 

He didn’t try to break his fall. He didn’t want to claw his way out, again, either. He wasn’t sure he could take more pain, more judgement, more anything.

 

Leonard sank into the seat beside him, slipping an arm around his broken body, murmuring. “It’s alright, Jim. No lasting harm done.”

 

Jim leaned on him despite his better judgment, tucking his head into Leonard’s chest, crying as he hadn’t all these months. Crying out his losses in tears.

 

And the doctor he’d told himself he hated, but who had taken care of his battle wounds, let him.

 

 

oOo

 

 

Once Jim had quieted, Leonard led him up the stairs, feeling his exhaustion, bearing most of Jim’s weight with each faltering step. “You can have my bed.”

 

“I’m not staying for the night,” the captain mumbled. “I gotta go—”

 

“Yeah? Go somewhere else? Where, Jim?”

 

Jim wavered on his feet, looking at him with red, sorrow-filled eyes. “The...the woods. I’ve slept in worse.”

 

Leonard could hardly think of all he’d gone through to get here. “No,” he said firmly. “You’re staying here.”

 

Jim groaned, but Leonard wouldn’t allow the young man, not so long ago a kid, to endure any more unnecessary pain. He gripped him by the arm, urging him onward. When Jim finally stumbled into his room, the captain shook his head, as if to clear his vision.

 

“Why you doing this?” Jim whispered, eyes on the floorboards.

 

“It’s the right thing to do.” Leonard pulled out a dresser drawer, frowning as he rummaged through it. “I have clothes you can wear.” He grabbed trousers and a shirt, throwing them on the bed. “They’ll be a little big, but they’ll do.”

 

Jim stared at them, his mouth working.

 

“You need help.” Leonard had seen the way his mangled hand had twisted on the gun, and again when Jim had wrapped it around the fork in an attempt to eat like a civilized man.

 

The younger man’s scars had thickened—and were stiff and hardy. The muscles were not what they used to be, threatening his independence.

 

Jim nodded, looking defeated.

 

“Come here, then,” Leonard murmured, as if Jim was Jojo’s age.

 

Jim’s head dropped, but he came forward. Leonard worked Jim’s clothing off with patience, telling himself that what he was sensing between them wasn’t real.

 

But it was a lie. Something had sparked between them. There’d been one time—or maybe two—in the prison hospital that he’d held Jim’s hand for longer than was proper, under the concealment of a blanket. Something about the captain had called out to him, and apparently, Jim had felt something, too, because he hadn’t let go, even when he’d awakened from a fever-filled sleep.

 

Leonard couldn’t tell now, if Jim still felt the same, but he did. Biting his lower lip, he coaxed the weary captain under the covers, pulling the blanket up to his chin.

 

Jim’s eyes immediately began to droop. “Are you doing this because I’m disfigured?”

 

“No, don’t think that.” Leonard squeezed his hand unthinkingly, looking back at the door to make sure he’d shut it firmly. “Tomorrow, we’ll talk. And maybe see what we can do to help that arm of yours.”

 

He turned to leave, but Jim continued to cling to his hand. “Stay,” Jim whispered.

 

Leonard stared back at him, torn.

 

Jim stared back, his blue eyes filled with emotions. Earnestness. Hope. Weariness. Fear. And something else Leonard couldn’t identity.

 

He couldn’t walk away. Not for all the good in the world. Not from Jim.

 

The thread between them strengthened when he nodded, and joined him on the bed, sitting on the edge of the bed. They didn’t have much time to be together. Both of them knew and understood, Jim’s eyes flickering with gratefulness and a hesitance that broke his heart.

 

But as Jim curled up against him, and tucked himself into his side, the insecurity vanished. Leonard reached over with one arm and smoothed the younger man’s hair, which hadn’t seen a comb in days from the looks of it. The captain’s breath evened out almost instantly.

 

Leonard exhaled, matching his breath to Jim’s. In, then out, his eyes staring into the deepening darkness, and the fragile flame of the candle he’d used to guide them to the bedroom grew brighter. It flickered, casting fresh shadows on the wall, but nothing that revealed the two men were in bed together with a familiarity that would be shunned if discovered.

 

But ignoring their connection wasn’t going to be easy for them. Not for two people pulled along by the same thread.

 

He’d always been able to read people well. Captain Kirk, although the enemy at one time, and still fueled with bitterness, was no exception. Attraction, once dormant, had stirred.

 

Leonard had pursued Elizabeth, then married Jocelyn, but had never fully loved them. Had they sensed this about him? Saw their future, unfulfilled? Or, maybe, they had actually loved him, after all, choosing to keep silent about their suspicions, sparing him from shame.

 

He’d never felt that spark of joy and love in his heart for them like he’d had for Captain Kirk, injured and vulnerable on that cot, and at his mercy, but meeting his eyes so bravely. When Elizabeth had decided to marry another man, he hadn’t been broken-hearted. When Jocelyn had given birth to Joanna, he’d been more concerned about his daughter’s well-being than his wife’s.

 

It had been a puzzle, one now fitting together, since Captain Kirk had sought him out. But it wasn’t complete. Not yet. Leonard needed him, alive and well. His heart demanded it.

 

One day at a time, he told himself. Their demons would fade, old memories reshaping into new ones. It wouldn’t be easy, but nothing like this was. The war was over, his work with the Underground Railroad complete, but a different kind of concealment would begin.

 

Jim had come to find him. His arrival had resulted in the burgeoning promise of an unexpected but not unwanted way of life—far more than he’d ever hoped for.

 

For Jim’s sake—for theirs, he promised himself—he’d do all he could to help him find the strength to live on. To convince Jim he was still handsome in Leonard's eyes, his physically damaged body be damned.

 

They would do this together, the ache in his heart told him, or not at all.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story was mostly inspired by my love of writing historical fiction outside of fandom. I actually “borrowed” a kernel of an idea from myself, from an original work I’m writing, and this tale was born. But, I’d like to also mention that I live in a midwestern town with a fascinating history with the Underground Railroad, my dad has been involved with Civil War reenactments in the past, there are a LOT of Quakers around here, and I pretended to be Laura Ingalls Wilder for at least half of my childhood. A fic like this was inevitable—and I’m glad it happened now. I’ll be honest, I’ve struggled to find my voice in this fandom the past one or two years—stress, fatigue, loss of inspiration, time, what have you—and this particular story and the love growing between Jim & Bones despite their hardships brought all my gooey feelings back. And then some. 
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read the story. I hope you enjoyed it. Comments are always welcome and greatly appreciated! There will be other parts to this series. Probably a prequel set in Andersonville, the prison. And then a follow-up to this one-shot. Much love. XX.


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